The Devil’s Due by Boucher, Rita (free reads txt) 📗

not quite a recovery, but hopefully, long enough to locate his errant sister-by-marriage and her child. Once Chloe was dead, there would inevitably be questions and it would be infinitely preferable to have matters settled.

At last, there was a definite clue to the whereabouts of his niece and sister-by -marriage. A carter near Dover had distinctly recalled two women and a child. . . a dark- haired child . . . clever of her to dye the girl’s hair. Kate’s hair was the color of deep glossy chestnut and as smooth to the touch as a length of silk. It had fallen well below her waist, down to . . . Vesey’s fist clenched. He would not allow himself to think of it. Best to deal with that later and occupy his thoughts elsewhere. Prinny was hinting at yet another loan and this time there would certainly be a barony when the debt was smiled away.

Clasping that hope to his bosom, Vesey moved on to the business at hand. His desk was piled high. All of the Steele family affairs had fallen to him, naturally, and as always, he was moving carefully and judiciously. On the face of it, no one could claim that Vesey was anything other than the diligent steward. However, he did not dare to hire a secretary to ease the burden of correspondence and administration. He had learned the hard lesson that the slightest indiscretion, the least bit of heedlessness, could lead to inadvertent discovery. It was a lucky thing indeed that Duncan MacLean had been fool enough to confront him directly. Otherwise, all his diligent planning would have been for naught.

Vesey scrutinized every bit of correspondence carefully, making notes, weaving his web of control over the Steele assets ever tighter. Still, he nearly tossed aside one letter as some mendicant’s plea or tradesman’s demand. The quality of the paper was poor and the seal less than impressive. However, it was addressed to Lord Steele. Vesey broke the wax and realized that it was from a solicitor’s office.

Although he racked his brain, Vesey could recall no Edinburgh law firm with connections to his wife’s late brother. Puzzled he read on, his breath catching in his throat as he read and re-read the scrawled missive.

MacLean was alive.

The paper rustled, crumpling as Vesey’s hand closed convulsively. He breathed deeply forcing himself to read on. The Scot was a lord now, it seemed, a bloody Earl, and he was asking Marcus to return the bequest that was distributed to him, a book of Blake’s poetry and a ring.

It took two glasses of port to steady Vesey’s hand. He reminded himself that he was a man to be reckoned with now, more influential, certainly, than he had been when MacLean had faced him with those accusations. It would be the Mad MacLean’s slander against the word of one of the members of Prinny’s most intimate circle. But the Scot was an earl now and there was the possibility that MacLean did have the evidence that he had mentioned so long ago. Dimly Vesey recalled the words of that conversation of the eve of the battle of Badajoz.

“I shall give you one chance only, Vesey,” MacLean had warned. “Any charges against you would cause a scandal and damage Marcus’s career and name. Confess and resign your commission. Cooperate and you would get off fairly easily, in all likelihood and avoid sullying your family.”

“This is utter nonsense, MacLean!” He had protested.

“I have proof,” the Scot had said, his expression hardening into stone. “Names, dates, places. By nightfall tomorrow, Vesey. Provide your resignation, confession and an offer of restitution or you may sing your songs of innocence all you wish, for it will do you no good.”

It had been a simple matter to arrange for MacLean’s demise. There were more than a few senior officers who owed Vesey favors, men who had feared being implicated. MacLean had been sent into the heart of the furnace, a section of the battlefield where he was sure to perish under fire, or so Vesey had thought. But now the Scot was back.

If Duncan MacLean still had the evidence in hand, though, why had he not come forward yet? Vesey loosened the folds of his cravat, easing the points of his collar that were suddenly pressing against his throat.

A deeply troubling thought crept from the recesses of Vesey’ brain. He read through the MacLean’s missive once more, parsing and weighing every word. According to the Scot, Blake’s Songs of Innocence was the book that had been left to Marcus. However, his brother-by marriage had despised poetry as so much rhymed drivel and had oft condemned poets as posturing scribblers. Surely MacLean had known of Marcus’s tastes?

“You may sing your songs of innocence all you will.”

Vesey recollected MacLean’s ironic smile. Yes, it would suit the Scot’s cursed humor to twit his enemy and dangle the hiding place for the evidence right before his nose.

Vesey had searched MacLean’s tent after the battle, of course, under the pretext of gathering the Scot’s last effects. Vesey’s teeth gnashed as he recalled the lushly illustrated volume, remembered holding it in his hand and tossing it aside without consideration. He had falsely concluded that MacLean had kept the evidence on his person. No corpse had ever been confirmed as MacLean’s, but there had been many bodies on that bloody field that were charred or blown beyond recognition.

Gradually, the hammering of Vesey’s heart slowed. If the evidence was in that book of Blake, then MacLean did not have it. Obviously, the Scot still believed that Marcus was among the living. Perhaps, MacLean was still hoping to avoid embroiling his friend in a scandal or was he just waiting for the return of the evidence that he needed? The book might very well be the key.

Vesey calculated rapidly. The execution and distribution of a soldier’s will was often a slow process. So it was quite possible that Marcus had already been dead when the